George decided that her unconventional beauty was the reason why he kept revisiting the few seconds he saw her. And yet, there was more. A certain familiarity. The memory of her features was already stored somewhere in his brain. Or maybe her dress. The way she stood in the carriage. Incongruous and yet defiant.
But, mainly, George wanted to know who she was. He wanted to see her again.
He was so intrigued, that the woman who was actually sitting next to him, his woman, had to repeat every sentence twice. Until when, fed up with his monosyllabic replies, she stopped mid-conversation, picked up a magazine and ignored him back.
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